


Closing Time

by legitimatecacti (paigepussgurka)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bartender Keith (Voltron), Drinking, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, M/M, Mild Language, One Shot, The Service Industry is Full of Suffering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-29 01:46:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15719397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paigepussgurka/pseuds/legitimatecacti
Summary: Keith is a bartender at Bar of Marmora who hates Friday nights and just wants to make rent so he can go home. He sees a lot of things that don't phase him (vomit, terrible flirting, drunken injuries, sloppy make-outs, people ugly crying into a vodka soda, more vomit, etc.) but lately he just can't get one of his regulars out of his head.





	Closing Time

**Author's Note:**

> Oof. This is my first posted fic (for any fandom) in like 4 years. I've done some fic writing for myself on and off but haven't had the stones to finish or post anything. Recently, I've had about 10 KL ideas and drabbles sitting and rotting in my google drive but for some reason this one was demanding to be finished. So here it is, almost 8,000 words later. It's un-beta'd and only briefly read over before publishing so forgive any grammatical/flow issues (I'll probably come back through and edit it again later with fresh eyes) (UPDATE: It's now been edited a bit more so this is its final form). It's tough to get back into writing for anyone but myself (especially having to write summaries again, oof), but this story spoke to me and wouldn't shut up so here it is. Enjoy!

“ _Fuck_ ,” Keith curses under his breath as a customer’s elbow knocks over a full pint of Hemperor HPA right onto his pants. He’s at work and trying to keep it kosher, but with a club mix of _Rack City_ (the incredibly explicit version) currently blowing out the whole bar’s eardrums it’s not really necessary. But despite the constant onslaught of noise _and_ smells (mostly Old Spice and some floral shit), he can still smell the overpowering 420 hemp stench that comes with that pint seeping through his clothes. At least the glass didn’t shatter. He leaves the oblivious, big-elbowed bastards to rot without service and moves down the bar to where he sees a polite hand being raised while holding a credit card.

“Hey, what can I get for you?” Keith raises his voice to be heard over the din of bar sounds while he puts two cocktail napkins down. The polite hand is attached to a tall and tan guy with a blinding smirk that would be 100% Keith’s type if not for the equally tall, midriff-bearing blonde girl that the guy has an arm around. Good looking straight guys? Been there done that. So Keith stays professional while trying to ignore the fact that he reeks of hemp beer.

“Two Bacardis and Coke, please!” The guy shouts a bit louder than necessary, but Keith nods and takes the card from his hand. He pours up the two drinks and runs the card while watching Tall and Tan shamelessly and brazenly flirt with Blondie. As obnoxious as it looks, she seems to be into it so he doesn’t feel compelled to step in or anything. He puts down the drinks and holds out the card, but before Tall and Tan can thank him, Blondie takes all three and walks away with a smile. Keith and Tall and Tan watch as she makes her way to a tall dude with beefed up arms, hands a drink and the card to him, and lets out a laugh.

“That’s rough buddy,” Keith says to the gobsmacked look on Tall and Tan’s face as he awkwardly places the receipt down on the bar.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Tall and Tan says out loud, head falling into his hands. Keith sighs, feeling his altruistic side fighting to the surface. He quickly makes up another Bacardi and Coke and places it in front of Tall and Tan. The guy looks up as if in equal parts pain and gratefulness. This reminds Keith of [ one of those surreal Chris the Simpsons Artist memes that Regris sends him every time he covers his shifts ](https://i.kym-cdn.com/photos/images/newsfeed/001/135/941/b95.jpg).

“This one’s on me,” Keith glances at the name from the credit card receipt, “Lance.”

“Did she seriously take my card too? Or am I dreaming?” Instead of answering, Keith merely pours another shot of Bacardi into Lance’s cup. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Keith puts the bottle back and looks back one more time at the poor fool, “Might wanna cancel that card tonight.”

“Thanks,” Lance responds, head back in his hands.

When Keith feels compelled to check on the guy a while later and finds only the card receipt (still signed despite the situation, a noble move) and ten dollar bill. Huh. Even in defeat, Tall and Tan was a gracious tipper and Keith wasn’t about to complain. The good feelings last only a moment until some dumbass knocks another beer onto his bar and his clothes. This time the glass shatters into a billion tiny pieces. “ _Fuck_.”

 

* * *

 

Keith hates Friday nights. It’s not even midnight and he's already cleaned vomit off the bar twice, so needless to say he’s ready for his shift to be over and really doesn’t want to think about the _four hours_ still stretching out in front of him. He sees a hand go up further down the bar and quickly goes to serve them and escape the apparently more vomit-y side of the room. He feels his shoes stick to the ground and tells himself that they’re covered in grenadine instead of somebody’s stomach fluids.

“What can I get for you?” He asks a guy who looks oddly familiar.

“A Bacardi and Coke for me––”

 _Oh shit_ , Keith thinks. It’s Tall and Tan again.

“And a vodka soda for the lady!”

 _Oh_ shit, Keith thinks again. The girl next to him has multicolored hair, bright blue eyes, and, since she comes in here almost every night, Keith knows exactly who she is. Tall and Tan (what was his name again?) has some bad taste if he’s trying to hit on Ezor of all people. But he’s just a bartender, not a counselor so he pours the drinks and takes Tall and Tan’s cash (seems he didn’t get that card back from Blondie the other night, what a shame). As he’s putting the Svedka back on the shelf he hears the guy schmooze out a “the name’s Lance” ( _right_ , that was the name) and suddenly feels a vague sense of pity. Ezor is playing along, touching Lance’s arm and laughing loudly at his jokes. Keith rolls his eyes and turns away when Lance starts to flex. The straight male peacocking is a bit much to stomach when you’re covered in booze and vomit (or grenadine, hoping it’s grenadine).

A while later, Keith passes a cup of water off to the college kid that just vomited _next_ to the bar (thankfully) instead of on top of it. He’s all but forgotten about Ezor and Lance and is letting his coworker Regris worry about that side of the bar as a flood of co-eds come clamoring for shots as LMFAO’s _Shots_ comes on over the bar’s speakers. His coworker is therefore busy pouring when the sound of a glass being purposefully shattered on the bar rings in his ears. Keith is immediately pissed, he is _not_ in the mood to clean up glass and deal with some drunken brawl. He grabs the walkie and tells the bouncer (he thinks it's Antok tonight but he can’t quite remember) there might be a situation as he stomps down to the other end of the bar.

The scene he comes upon is a glass covered bar with a pale, fearful Lance looking wide-eyed at the giant woman now standing between him and Ezor. It had only been a matter of time before Zethrid showed up to pick up her girlfriend. _Give me a fucking break_.

“Zethrid, are you breaking my glassware again!?” Keith yells over the music. The hulking woman glares at him for a moment, but Keith just glares back, eyes cold, and gestures with the walkie towards where Antok is standing near the door. “Get out!”

“Aw, Red, we’re just having fun,” Ezor whines. The lack of color in Lance’s face says otherwise. The two women finally leave after another threat of involving the bouncer. Keith turns to Lance to see if he’s recovered and finds him still frozen.

“Hey, you alright?”

“Y-yeah, thanks.”

“Sorry, I should’ve warned you about them. You want a drink?” Lance takes a deep breath, stands up, and puts on a big grin.

“No I’m alright, thanks man!” The guy leaves a couple dollar bills on the bar then heads out. Keith sighs. _That kid just seems to have the worst luck_. A retching sound catches Keith’s ear and he sighs again. _Fuck Fridays._

 

* * *

 

The girl reigning supreme at the bar tonight was undeniably beautiful. Keith was a 6 on the Kinsey Scale but he could still admit she was stunning. She had flawless dark skin, long white hair, blue eyes, and a killer British accent. While Keith shook her up one Tom Collins after another (it wasn’t necessary but he did it with a bit of flair because she seemed to be entertained by it and tipped him each time), he watched her politely turn away at least four different guys of varying types and attractiveness. One of them had even been that stupidly handsome heir to the Zarkon family fortune with the long hair (what was his name? Lotion? No that wasn’t it) and she _still_ turned him down. So when good ol’ Tall and Tan slides up to her, Keith mentally prepares himself to make the guy another consolation drink. He’d watched Lance strike out twice already and it was going to be painful to watch him fail again, Keith almost wanted to warn him.

“Hey, beautiful, the name’s Lance and I’ve traveled across the galaxy to find you,” Lance says, slinging an arm over the girl’s shoulders. The girl looks at him and narrows her eyes.

“Your ears are _hideous_ ,” she says, posh accent making it all the more scathing. Keith’s eyebrows shoot up. He quietly clears away the most recent Collins glass off the bar and waits for the fallout that...never comes. The two simply stare at each other for a moment before dissolving into raucous laughter.

“You wound me, Allura!” Lance shouts, clutching his chest dramatically until a Cardi B song comes on. He immediately springs into action, grabbing the girl’s hand. “To the dance floor!” he shouts, dragging the laughing girl behind him as he charges to the dancefloor. What was that? Are they friends? Dating? Why does Keith care? He doesn’t know, so he goes back to what he does best: ~~spilling grenadine on his shoes~~ expertly crafting cocktails.

 

* * *

 

The next time Keith sees Tall and Tan, the guy’s already halfway to Too Drunk and is yelling and gesturing to two of his friends. One of them is vaguely feminine but Lance’s lack of winking and shoulder-touching implies he’s not trying to flirt. Keith is grateful, he’d rather not have to save Lance from another angry S.O. He doesn’t get paid (or tipped) enough for that.

“What can I get you?” Keith says over the music (oh god, is the DJ playing _Trap Queen_ again?). Lance, eyes unfocused, seems to struggle to find the source of the voice for a moment. He even stares right over Keith’s head a couple times and Keith has never felt so short in his entire life. “Hey!” he shouts, snapping his fingers in front of Lance’s face. Blue eyes follow the arm attached to the fingers to finally look at Keith.

“Oh hey!” Keith waits for him to continue but he doesn’t, just smiles absently and stares at him (and if Keith wasn’t already 3 hours into his shift he’d have the wherewithal and the pride to think Lance was low-key checking him out). After another beat of silence he rolls his eyes and tries again.

“Drinks! What do you want?” He flips through his mental Rolodex to remember what Lance got last time, “Bacardi and Coke?”

“Oh! Shit! Yeah! You remembered! I’ll take a double, how’d you remember?”

“It’s a gift,” Keith says and holds his hand out for payment.

“Wait! My friends want drinks, too! Uh...” Lance turns for a moment to consult with his friends behind him, “An IPA for the big man and a Long Island Iced Tea for the gremlin!” The vaguely feminine one (apparently “the gremlin”) kicks Lance in the ankles for that comment while the Big Man laughs. Ordering a Long Island was already a red flag and Keith looks at the small one for a moment before leveling Lance with his signature Cut The Shit face (the “CTSF™” as Regris calls it).

“Seriously? I’m not serving a 15-year-old, how did she even get in here?” Lance and the Big Man erupt into laughter, while the Gremlin shouts something indignant. When Lance calms down, he counters Keith’s CTSF™ with some deadly puppy eyes and a pleading hand lands on Keith’s shoulder (Keith almost shivers at the sweet, sweet human contact).

“C’mon man!” Lance pleads. Keith wrestles down the butterfly (just one) in his stomach and grabs Lance’s wrist, lifting the hand from his shoulder and dropping it.

“C’mon nothing. And hands off, this isn’t a titty bar.”

“Listen...what’s your name?”

He’s going to regret this. “Keith.”

“Listen, Keith. I promise she’s at _least_ old enough to get in here, but could you do me a solid and help a guy out? Just pretend all three drinks are for me?”

Keith’s logical human brain wants to radio Antok and have him kick these dumbasses out. But his lizard brain is too taken in by how _good_ Lance looks in that turtleneck and saying his name.

Fuck it, if anything it’s Antok’s fault for letting a 15-year-old in. When Keith rolls his eyes and grabs the cheap bottle of triple sec from his speed rail, Lance and Company cheer. It takes a minute to mix the Long Island and to find where he put his bar key so he can open the beer, but Lance pays promptly in cash and tells Keith to keep the (sizable amount) of change.

“Thanks, buddy, I owe you one!” Lance starts to turn away with the drinks precariously balanced in his hands and shouts “The name’s Lance by the way!” over his shoulder before he and his friends melt back into the crowd. Keith huffs at his own easiness.

 

* * *

 

Fuck Fridays. Has Keith mentioned that already? At least this week he was the opener, meaning he cut lemons, poured beers, and did other inane shit then got to clock out when the first splash of vomit hit the (thankfully well-varnished) wooden bar. He’s already grabbed his leather jacket and helmet from the “break room” (the literal supply closet where everyone kept their jackets and bags and where greenhorn bartenders went to cry) and is about to head for his bike through the side door when his ear catches a familiar “C’mon, man!”

At the main door, Antok is staring down a ruffled Lance with his arms crossed. Keith raises an eyebrow at the fuss Lance is making as the bouncer continues to deny him entry. Lance must finally feel Keith’s eyes on him as he suddenly whips around and begins waving him down.

“Keith! Buddy! Help me out!” Keith begrudgingly walks closer, CTSF™ firmly in place.

“What are you doing, Lance.” It doesn’t even come out as a question because this bouncer does not like Keith and he is tired and he wants to go home. Antok answers instead.

“He’s trying to get in with an expired ID, I told him to fuck off.”

“I told you I lost my regular ID! But it’s not like this one is fake, it’s just old! C’mon, Keith, tell him!”

Keith sighs. _God_  he wants to go home and hang out with his dog.

“He’s a regular, Antok. I recognize him, I vouch for him.” The bouncer grunts in annoyance but decides to step aside and let Lance in, who gives a howl of excitement. Keith huffs and turns back towards the parking lot.

“Thanks, Keith! I owe you one, buddy!” Two. He owes him two.

 

* * *

 

The DJ was on a 90s R&B kick tonight (or maybe it was 90s Night? Keith couldn’t keep track of theme nights), which meant _Ignition (Remix)_ came on every 45 minutes. They _really_ needed a better DJ. Thankfully, the guy did play the occasional rock or alternative song which was the only thing keeping Keith from offing himself at this point. He would be happy with some more Weezer or Green Day, maybe blink-182, but no. Instead of anything reasonable like that the DJ was playing the longest _I’m the Scatman_ remix he’d ever had the displeasure of hearing. After what must have been 6 full minutes of “bi boh ba bodda boh,” _Scatman_ was eventually transitioned (badly, very badly) into _All The Small Things_. That was something Keith could tolerate (and maybe sing along to under his breath, but nobody has to know that).

Keith’s greatly improved post-blink-182 mood (he was forever an emo kid at heart, give him a break) caused him to genuinely smile when his next customer happened to be a familiar face.

“Hey, Lance, what can I get for you? Bacardi and Coke?” The brightly colored windbreaker and high-waisted, light wash jeans Lance was wearing implied that it was in fact 90s Night (how he managed to look good in such a ridiculous outfit was beyond Keith, why did he look so ~~_hot_~~ good in everything and why did Keith have to have a thing for obviously straight dudes).

“Buddy! You know me so well!” Lance shouts, clutching at his chest. Keith smiles again and is about to grab the bottle of Bacardi when Lance gestures to a familiar blonde girl next to him and the smile immediately slips off Keith’s face. “And a frozen Daiquiri for Nyma!” Jesus, wasn’t that Blondie from the other night? The girl that _robbed_ him? Was he this desperate?

 _Chill, Keith, you’re not his counselor or his friend, you’re just his bartender._ Ah, a bartender, the unfortunate witness to so much drunken stupidity.

“This isn’t Bourbon Street, try again,” Keith says, CTSF™ now firmly in place. Not only was this girl sketchy but making frozen drinks was a major pain in the ass, and Keith did not want to deal with the sound of the blender _and_ the shitty DJ.

“C’mon, Keith––” Keith was really starting to hate that phrase, “––You know I’ll tip you good, dude!” He entirely plans to resist, that is until Lance breaks out the puppy dog eyes and immediately breaks him. He makes a big show of rolling his eyes before stomping over to his blender. It takes _way_ too much time and _way_ too much effort, but Lance keeps his promise to tip well and Keith needs to make rent. “Thanks, man! I owe you one!” Lance shouts, still standing at the bar with drink in hand. Keith rolls his eyes again. _You owe me way more than one_.

“Sure,” he says, deadpan with not even the distant ghost of a smile left on his face as he turns to serve the next customer. He ignores the confused look Lance gives him and focuses his annoyance on _Ignition (Remix)_ coming on for the fourth time.

  


At nearly 4 AM, 90s Night is finally over, the bar is clean (or as clean as it ever gets), and Keith is at last heading out to his bike. He’s fishing for his keys in his jacket pocket when he hears someone quietly, drunkenly singing along to an acoustic cover of _Closing Time_ coming from the food truck parked nearby (they always play it after the bar closes as a sort of siren call for drunk and hungry patrons looking for the next thing to do). When he finds the source of the singing, Keith sighs. He’s tired, he’s low-key filled with rage (as all service industry workers are), and he wants to go home, but seeing Lance sitting on the dirty curb by himself, head between his knees, wearing that ridiculous windbreaker isn’t something he can ignore so he moves to stand in front of the disheveled boy.

“Hey, you ok?” His voice is gravely from yelling to customers all night and never drinking enough water (his brother Shiro’s always telling that Red Bull isn’t a suitable substitute for water), but he’s sure Lance can hear him. He’s silent for a moment, head still between his knees.

“...No.” He sounds pretty drunk. And pretty sad. Keith isn't in the mood for this.

“Where’s your...” Keith tries to think of a word to describe a pretty blonde girl who robs people and drinks complicated, terrible drinks, “Friend?” When Lance is silent Keith tries a different word. “Girlfriend?” Lance finally lifts his head to look at Keith.

“She’s not...she’s not. I gave her another chance and...she stole my whole wallet.”

“Shit.” Keith isn’t really surprised.

“And my phone is dead.”

“That’s rough, buddy. Do you need to use a phone? Call one of your friends? Maybe that Gremlin kid?” Lance snorts a laugh at that.

“I don’t have their numbers memorized. Just my mom’s.”

“You could call her?”

“She lives in Cuba.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Lance’s head drops back between his knees, mumbling something that sounds like, “I’m so hungry.”

Keith sighs heavily. That one butterfly he beat down so many night ago is rising from the dead and giving him stupid ideas. Figuring he can leave Lance alone for a minute, he jogs over to the food truck and looks over their menu. He orders a small box of garlic knots then goes and sits on the curb next to Lance.

“Here,” he says, thrusting the box at Lance.

“What is this?”

“Food. Eat it.”

“Man, you don’t gotta do this––”

“Let’s just say I used the tip you gave me tonight. Now eat.” When Lance opens the box and sees the knots, he just about cries and scarfs them down in record time (yet again Keith feels as if he is living that surreal Simpsons Artist meme). Keith gives him a minute to breathe before standing back up.

“Can you stand up?”

“I dunno.”

“ _Try_ ,” Keith says, more loudly now, and holds out his hand. The sad boy hesitates for a moment, then puts the empty box aside and lets Keith help him up. Despite the sad, drunken tone to his voice (and the boozy stench coming from him, how much did Regris serve him?), Lance is able to stand just fine and still seems pretty coordinated. Keith ignores the way the butterfly in his stomach multiplies at the feeling of Lance’s hand in his and forces himself to let go. “Do you think you can keep your balance?”

“What is this, a DUI test? Are you a cop?”

“I’m gonna give you a ride home, but I have a motorcycle and I don’t want you drunkenly falling off it and busting your head open.” Speaking of busting heads open, “Put this on.” Keith shoves his helmet at a still confused Lance.

“What?”

“C’mon, I don’t have all night.” Keith starts walking towards his bike again, this time with Lance following behind, struggling to get the helmet on.

“Does wearing a helmet ever mess up your mullet?”

“My _what_?”

“How does this buckle work?” Lance asks, ignoring Keith's indignation at the word "mullet."

Keith sighs, wrestling down the butterflies (now more than one, it's an infestation) before knocking Lance’s hands away and buckling the chin strap for him. “Like that.” It takes him a minute to remove and stash the cover on the passenger seat and to pop out the second set of pegs (it’s been a long time since anyone has ridden with him...OK, maybe nobody ever has, shut up). He settles himself in his own seat then turns to a frozen Lance. “Get on.”

“Wh–How?” Keith’s patience has finally worn thin.

“Do you want a ride or not!”

“Fine! I’m going, jeez!” Lance awkwardly climbs onto the back of the bike, sitting ramrod straight, “Aren't you gonna wear a helmet?”

“I only have the one you're wearing.”

“That’s not safe.”

“It’s _fine_ ,” Keith snaps, trying to rein his temper back in, “And you can’t sit up like that, you’ll fall off.” He feels his ears burning at with Lance's proximity.

“Oh! Should I uh...” Lance makes a few vague gestures that earn a blank stare in return, “OK.” He stiffly leans forward and places his hands on Keith’s...shoulders? Not quite what was expected. Well, he’d figure it out pretty quickly. Keith turns his key in the ignition and kicks up the kickstand.

“Watch your leg on the exhaust, it’ll burn you if you’re not careful. Where do you live?”

“Are you propositioning me?”

“Lance!”

“OK, OK!” Lance quickly gives him directions, definitely more sober in his nervousness. Keith nods along, goes over it once in his head, then leans over the fuel tank.

“Hold on.”

Keith would never admit that he hit the throttle a little too hard on purpose just to hear Lance squeal and scramble to wrap his arms around his waist. That’s something he would take to the grave.

 

After getting just a little lost on the way (Lance insists his directions were flawless and that Keith just wasn’t listening), they finally pull up in front of Lance’s apartment building. Lance climbs off the bike on shaky legs, almost singeing his leg on the exhaust and paws at the chin strap on the helmet until he manages to get it off. Keith snorts at Lance’s helmet hair (choosing not to tease him for it, unlike Lance with that mullet comment) and digs in his jeans pocket for a pen he knew he’d stashed there. No customers had stolen his pen tonight, thankfully, because he was about to do something stupid with it. He grabbed Lance’s wrist, pushed up the sleeve of his windbreaker, and quickly (to disguise his nervousness) scrawled his phone number on the tan skin there.

“In case you find yourself in a mess like this again,” Keith says, not making eye contact as he takes his helmet from Lance’s other hand and shoves it over his head.

“Thanks, Keith. Seriously, dude, I know I say this a lot but I really do owe you one. More than one. Sorry.” Keith waves him off.

“It’s ok. Might wanna cancel the cards that Nyma girl stole, if you have any left after the last time.” Lance groans but Keith just huffs a laugh, “See you around, Lance.”

The ride home is cold, but Keith is full of butterflies and more awake than ever.

 

* * *

 

Keith is in a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad mood. And it has _nothing_ to do with the fact that it’s been a week since he drove Lance home and he hasn’t gotten a _single_ text from the idiot. Or that he’s been wearing his most flattering work clothes and trying to tame his hair every shift this week in hopes that Lance would come by the bar. His mood has nothing to do with either of those things at all. It’s definitely just the meager tips he’s getting (probably because he’s putting zero energy into his appearance or bartending tonight) and how his hair keeps falling out of the stupid ponytail he tied it back into. Just that. Nothing to do with Lance. Who even is Lance?

“Keith!” Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Why is this happening? The one night he gives up. His last shift he was wearing real people clothes, this shift he’s wearing an oversized, stained (but thankfully black) “Bar of Marmora” t-shirt and his designated work jeans (because they reek of liquor no matter how often he washes them). _Christ_. He tries to pretend he didn’t hear his name, but then it’s repeated even louder and coupled with obnoxious arm waving. He groans and curses the gods of bartending. When he approaches, he sees Lance’s arm slung around that beautiful white-haired, blue-eyed girl from a few weeks ago. She’s well-dressed and stunning as she laughs along to Lance’s jokes. Keith feels vaguely nauseous and tight-chested (and kind of like garbage but whatever).

“Bacardi and Coke?”  he says, with little enthusiasm (despite the painful beat of a thousand wings in his stomach).

“Yeah! Guys, this is Keith! Keith, this is Hunk,” the Big Man from the other night waves from behind Lance, “Pidge,” apparently the Gremlin has a real name, “Romelle,” that’s a new face, “and Allura!” The pretty girl has an equally pretty name, awesome. Meanwhile, Keith is named _Keith_ , because if there is a god he is incredibly unfair (and don’t even _mention_ his middle name because it proves god is dead and Keith’s parents killed him).

“I’m not serving those two,” Keith says, CTSF™ in place as he points at Pidge and Romelle, “They look about 14.”

“C’mon, Keith––”

“No, don’t ‘c’mon’ me. I did you a favor serving her last time, I’m not gonna do it again. When they can show me horizontal IDs, _real_ ones, then I’ll make them all the nasty Long Islands they want. ‘Til then, it’s Shirley Temples and water.” Pidge and Romelle both groan and decide to go get something to eat at the food counter instead. Keith looks to the remaining three and raises an eyebrow.

“Fine,” Lance whines, “Then can we get my usual, a gin and tonic for the lady, and––Hunk, what do you want?”

“Uh...do you have any sours? A gose, maybe?” Keith runs through the beer list in his head and nods.

“How is Lance friends with someone with such good taste in alcohol?” He says as he turns away to search through the beer cooler and make the other drinks. Lance sputters, scandalized, while Hunk and the others laugh.

“I have good taste!”

“You drink Bacardi and Coke,” Keith deadpans, as if it’s self explanatory, and Hunk laughs even harder.

“You have a mullet!”

“You let the same girl rob you twice.”

Lance is silent for a moment, “Too-she.”

“It’s pronounced touché,” Keith says, raising an eyebrow and placing the three drinks on the bar. Lance looks like he’s about to rebuttal when Ke$ha comes on and he gasps loudly, immediately grabbing his and Allura’s drinks.

“Gotta go!” He shouts and the two start weaving through the crowd towards the dancefloor. Now only Hunk is left and Keith has to admit he feels a bit brushed off. But Hunk seems like a nice guy (who was left hanging to pay the tab) so he puts on his Friendly Bartender face and decides to pour the bottle of Cucumber Lime Gose he’d chosen for Hunk into a proper glass.

“Thanks,” Hunk says, picking up the glass.

“No problem.” Keith takes and runs the card Hunk hands him then hands it back with the receipt.

“Not just for the beer. You really helped Lance out last week by giving him that ride home. Most people would have probably called him an Uber, but it was really nice that you made sure he got home safe.” Shit, Keith hadn’t even considered calling him an Uber with that stupid stomach butterfly making him act like a fool.

“It’s no big deal.”

“Still, thanks,” Hunk smiles then looks down to sign the receipt, “He was super upset when he realized he’d smudged your number off in his sleep. He wouldn’t stop talking about it all week. He kept trying to get us to come back here with him but we were all too busy ‘til today. Have a good night, Keith!”

How could he drop that absolute _bomb_ on Keith and then just walk away? Keith stood there for a moment, just staring at where Hunk had been, while trying to calm down the dizzying pace his heart had decided to set. At the sound of Regris yelling to his left, he takes a deep (maybe a bit shaky, but he won’t admit that) breath, scoops up the receipt, and gets back to work.

 

* * *

 

Keith hates Fridays nights, but he also kind of hates Tuesday afternoons. His manager Kolivan likes him and tends to give him the best money-making shifts (which unfortunately means Friday nights), but he also loves to stick Keith with Tuesday afternoons where he sees maybe 10 customers before 6 PM (probably to force him to deep clean and watch him suffer all the while). He’s already wiped down the whole bar twice, he's even cleaned the draft lines, but he still has at least 3 hours before happy hour starts and so far he’s only made $15 in tips. He’s vaguely sweaty and grimy from cleaning and really wants this shift to be over.

At least he gets to pick the music since the DJ doesn’t show up until 9. And maybe, since the only other employee here right now is the guy running the food counter, he indulges in some different (read: guilty pleasure) music. And maybe, since the only customers here a couple people sitting at a booth in the corner, he even sings along a little while he’s wiping down display bottles. The sudden sound of clapping startles him and he nearly knocks over a huge bottle of Absolut. He whirls around to see where the noise came from only to see Lance pulling up a stool.

“Bravo! You have a good voice! Never pegged you as a John Denver fan, though,” Lance says, settling his elbows on the bar, “You seem more like a punk rock, alternative kinda guy.” Despite being embarrassed that he was caught singing (and complimented!) and being full of nervous energy at seeing Lance again after what Hunk said, Keith feels the need to defend what was his dad’s favorite song.

“ _Country Roads_ is a good song. Now what do you want? I’ve never seen you here in the light of day, do you...want Bacardi? At 3 PM?”

“Nah, just a beer.”

“You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

“Surprise me!” Normally, Keith hates when people say that, but there’s no other customers anyway and he isn’t in the mood to play 20 questions so he scans his tap handles. Lance seems to like sweet shit, so he pours an Abita Purple Haze. “It smells like berries.”

“Just drink it,” Keith says, wiping down the drip tray under the taps. It’s quiet for a moment and the song changes to _Buddy Holly_.

“Thanks, by the way,” Lance says, playing with the condensation on his glass, “For giving me a ride home the other night. And for the garlic knots. And all the other times you’ve helped me out.”

“Your welcome,” Keith says, and offers a small smile before looking back down at the limes he’s started cutting. Lance clears his throat awkwardly and Keith looks back up at him.

“I forgot to tell you the other night but, uh, your...your hair looks good up like that,” he gives a lopsided smile and Keith is sure his entire face is red. He’d put his hair up in a ponytail before cleaning the draft lines and forgotten to let it back down, but now he was glad he hadn’t.

“Thanks,” Keith smiles and tries to think of something to say, “So you said your mom lives in Cuba?” Lance, whose cheeks have gone totally pink, seems grateful for the change in topic.

“Yeah! That’s where I’m from, but I came to the US for school. What about you?” Lance sips at his beer and looks expectantly at Keith. OK, small talk, Keith can do this.

“Uh, I’m from Texas but my brother lives here so I moved to live closer to him.”

“You have a brother? I have two, and two sisters...” Lance seems to be able to talk forever about almost anything. Keith isn’t quite as adept but his years in the service industry help and Lance makes it easy. He finds himself smiling and laughing at Lance’s stories while he does his side work and serves the occasional customer. Around 5:30, happy hour brings in a couple groups of office types and Lance seems to take this as his cue to head out.

“Looks like it’s about to get busy so I’ll get outta your hair. It was good to see you, man, I’ll see you around!” He pays for the one beer, puts some cash on the bar for Keith, and leaves with a wave and a smile.

“See you,” Keith says, smiling. He quickly serves the people who’d just walked in before going to scoop up the money Lance left. As he’s about to put it in his tip jar, he notices there’s some writing in bright blue pen (is that Glitter Gel pen?) on one of the dollar bills. He looks closer and realizes, with a blush, that it's a phone number and the words ‘ _if you ever need to call in those favors :)_ ’ written along the edge. He tries to hide the big, stupid smile on his face as he rushes to the break room to put that particular dollar in his jacket pocket for safe keeping.

 

* * *

  

 _Vzzt vzzzzzzt_.

Lance pats his pockets in search of his phone while Pidge and Hunk argue about some math thing over lunch (he stopped paying attention after the second time they said “modulating”). _Vzzt vzzzzzzt_. He eventually finds it in the pocket of his discarded jacket and fishes it out to see whoever is double-texting him.

> _TEXT MESSAGE_
> 
> _Maybe: Keith_
> 
> _ >hey i’m working bar tonight from 7-4 if you want to come by i’ll cover  _ _your first drink_
> 
> _ >this is keith by the way _

Lance smiles.

“Ooh, is that your _boyfriend_?” Pidge says from across the table, a devious smirk on her face. Lance's ears turn red.

“Shut up!”

“Leave him alone, Pidge,” Hunk says, an encouraging smile on his face before he purposefully engages Pidge in another scientific discussion to distract her. Lance sends Hunk a grateful look and is about to respond to the texts when his phone vibrates again.

> _TEXT MESSAGE_
> 
> _Maybe: Keith_
> 
> _ >keith the bartender from bar of marmora _

Lance snorts, as if he knew anyone else named Keith. He puts the number in his phone and responds before the guy sends a fourth text.

> _NEW MESSAGE_
> 
> _To: Keith (Cowboy Hat Smiley Face Emoji)(Beer Emoji)_
> 
> _ > I’ll be there, pinky promise (Winking Emoji) _

 

* * *

 

Keith feels a little ridiculous. He’d gotten embarrassingly excited at Lance’s text earlier and had actually put effort into his appearance for his shift tonight. He’s wearing his black skinny jeans and v-neck (it’s his go-to outfit when he wants to try) and he’s got his hair in a messy ponytail (that took him about 20 tries to get right). but he hasn’t seen or heard from Lance and it’s already 11. So yeah, he feels a little stupid.

He lets Regris know he’s going out for a smoke break and ducks out the side door. He’s been trying to quit (Shiro’s always on his ass about it) but he’s so full of nervous energy tonight that he can’t help himself. He’s only just gotten the damn thing lit when he hears a tell-tale yell from the main door.

“C’mon, man! A passport is _way_ more legit than a license, give me a break!” Lance is, yet again, having trouble getting past Antok. The butterflies come to life in Keith’s stomach, but he decides to finish his cigarette and let Lance suffer for a minute. At one point, Antok makes Lance go to the back of the line and by the time he’s at the front again he’s yelling more, “C’mon, please! My friends are already in there! And Keith is waiting for me!” This makes Keith smile and he finally decides to step in. He stomps out his cigarette and cuts to the front of the line.

“Antok, get the stick out of your ass,” he says as he walks right past the imposingly large bouncer, “C’mon, Lance.” The boy behind him cheers and shoots one last glare at Antok before following Keith inside. Keith expertly weaves through the crowd to put his jacket and pack of cigs away, wash his hands, and get back behind the bar where Lance is already waiting for him. “Took you long enough. Too busy getting your wallet stolen again?”

“Hey, it’s not my fault! I had to find my passport since I lost _both_ my IDs, then that bouncer just _has_ to have it out for me!” Lance makes unnecessarily dramatic hand gestures while he relays his shitty day at work and how equally shitty Antok is. Keith just laughs and mixes up a Bacardi and Coke for him. Lance is trying (unsuccessfully) to give Keith money for the drink (“Stop, I said I’d get your first one!”) when Pidge and Hunk find him.

“Jesus, Lance, took you long enough,” Pidge says, shoving his shoulder. She’s surprisingly strong and Lance barely catches himself and his drink.

“Give me a break, Keith already yelled at me! Besides, it’s all that bouncer’s fault!” Lance repeats his harrowing experience with Antok, much to Hunk and Pidge’s amusement. Keith is in a good mood, so he serves Hunk two drinks (a craft beer he thinks Hunk will like and a small, watered down Long Island) knowing one will end up in Pidge’s hands. Lance and Pidge have a loud, almost unintelligible conversation because they can’t stop interrupting and talking over each other. Hunk and Keith just laugh along and briefly talk about craft beer when Keith isn’t serving other customers.

Another Bacardi and Coke later (this one Keith lets Lance pay for to shut him up), Allura and Romelle find them. Keith doesn’t want to get too deep but he notices that even though Lance pays for her drink, he isn’t all over Allura like he was the previous times they were here together. At one point, Cardi B’s _I Like It_ comes on and Allura immediately perks up and grabs Lance’s arm. She begs him to go dance with her but he politely refuses and Romelle (after taking a big gulp of Pidge’s Long Island) goes with her instead. The butterflies in his stomach flutter with renewed hope while Lance leans on the bar and raps the Spanish part of the song (Keith has to admit that’s a little hot).

Meanwhile, Pidge drains her Long Island (and part of Hunk’s beer) far too quickly. Keith is very glad he watered it down because after about 30 minutes she looks like she’s about to lose her dinner, and he _really_ doesn’t want to clean up vomit right now, not in his good clothes.

“Woah, Pigeon, you alright?” Lance asks, putting a steadying hand on her shoulder.

“I’m fine,” she mumbles.

“No, no you’re not. I’m gonna go find her something to eat,” Hunk says, interrupted by the sound of Pidge dry heaving, “Aaaand maybe a trash can. We’ll see you guys later.” Hunk herds the small girl through the crowd towards the food counter.

“Sorry my friends are such a mess,” Lance says, making an exaggerated sour face.

“Says the guy who got his wallet stolen twice. By the same girl.”

“You are _never_ gonna let me live that down, are you?”

“Nope,” Keith shouts over his shoulder as he goes to serve another customer. It’s a long, complicated, pain in the ass order and Keith worries that Lance will be gone by the time he’s done with it, but Lance doesn’t disappoint tonight and is laughing at something on his phone when Keith returns. “What’re you laughing at?”

“A picture of Pidge puking into a storm drain!”

“Jesus, is she ok?”

“Yeah, Hunk’s gonna take her home. She _never_ makes it past midnight when we go out, I’m impressed she made it this long.” They talk a bit more before Allura and Romelle reappear.

“Lance! Do you want to go to that new dance club downtown with us? Lotor got us on the list!” she says, paying for another gin and tonic. Lance rolls his eyes dramatically.

“Ok, ‘Llura, first of all, I hate Lotor.”

“He won’t _be_ there, he just––”

“Doesn’t matter! Besides, I’m having fun here. You guys go on ahead, I’ll see you at brunch tomorrow.”

“Are you sure?”

“ _Yes_! Now go before your Uber driver dips out on you, and text me when you guys get home OK!” The girls wave and quickly make their way to the exit. Lance turns back to Keith and smiles, “Now, where were we?”

Every time Keith steps away from Lance to serve another customer, the guy dances (pretty well) along to whatever’s playing while pointing embarrassingly at Keith (who tries to hide his big, stupid smile). There’s a brief rush of people around 1 AM, but then it starts to peter out as 1 AM turns to 2 turns to 3. The DJ makes the announcement for last call, but Lance has already moved on to water. Still, he refuses to leave his spot at the bar except to use the bathroom (which he does about every 30 minutes and Keith gives him a _bunch_ of shit for it) and entertains Keith with never ending stories while the bartenders start to clean up. At around 3:30, the DJ goes home and Antok comes in and tells Lance it’s time for him to scram.

“Antok, seriously––” Keith starts, but Lance interrupts him.

“It’s ok, I’ll let you guys clean up. See you later, Keith,” He says, smiling as he pays his tab and heads out. Even though they’d essentially just spent the last 4 hours or so together, Keith immediately misses him (it's pretty embarrassing to be honest), especially because Regris is much less enjoyable to hang out with. His coworker immediately starts roasting him about his “boyfriend” while playing _Closing Time_ (so unoriginal) from his phone on repeat for the next 45 minutes. It’s a very lackluster ending to the night.

  


“ _Closing time, you don’t have to go home but you can’t stay here_ ,” Keith finds himself singing under his breath, shuffling down the sidewalk and trying very hard not to drop his helmet, " _I know who I want to take me home..._ " 

His eyes are dry and his pants are tight and he wants to go to bed so badly that he nearly walks right into the person sitting on the curb by his bike. And what do you know, just like that night a couple weeks ago, Lance is on the curb (although he’s much more sober and much less sad this time) and someone is singing that fucking Semisonic song (although this time it’s him, which he hates upon realizing it). He’s looking down at his phone but immediately jumps to his feet when he notices Keith, a big smile taking over his face.

“Hey Keith!”

“Lance, what are you doing out here it’s,” Keith blinks at his phone, “4:20.” Lance laughs but Keith just raises an eyebrow.

“That's the weed number.”

“Seriously?”

“Nevermind.”

“Do you need a ride or something?”

“No! No, uh, I was actually hoping we could hang out more?” Lance seems nervous and when he sees Keith hesitate (understandably, it’s late, he just got off work, and he’s tired) he immediately back pedals, “It doesn’t have to be right now! Just, uh, text me and let me know when you have a day off. I’ll let you head home, I’m gonna get an Uber.” He pulls out his phone and is about halfway through ordering a car when Keith grabs his wrist.

“We can hang out for a bit. I should probably eat anyway, it’ll wake me up a little before I ride,” Keith says, offering a smile. The smile Lance gives in return is practically blinding.

“What do you say to some garlic knots then? I’m paying this time.”

“Sounds good,” Keith says. The butterflies are going wild, he can practically feel them in his throat while they share a large box of knots on the curb. “I have tomorrow off, by the way.”

“Awesome! You can come to brunch with all of us in like...” Lance checks his phone, “Six hours!” Keith laughs and nods. Lance clears his throat, suddenly becoming a bit nervous again and his next words come out as more of a question then he probably intended, “We can also hang out alone some time, like, just you and me, if you want, maybe?”

“Are you propositioning me?”

“Maybe?”

“It’s a date.”


End file.
